


woolf and salinger

by softsocky



Category: ASTRO (Band)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, New Year's Eve, its basically a new years eve kiss fic bye
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-24 14:31:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13215771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softsocky/pseuds/softsocky
Summary: Rocky was late. Or maybe he just wasn't coming.





	woolf and salinger

**Author's Note:**

> so this was kinda more emo than i wanted it to be

"Don't tell people what you are thinking,

or you will miss them terribly when you are away." 

\- J. D. Salinger,  _The Catcher in the Rye_

 

"What does the brain matter, 

compared with the heart?" 

\- Virginia Woolf,  _Mrs Dalloway_  

 

 

Rocky was late.

Sanha had kind of expected as much. He knew it was too good to be true. Rocky, _Minhyuk_ , actually sharing the feelings Sanha had for him. It was too _unlikely_ , a match that made sense on the surface but as things ran a little deeper, they became blurry and clouded and both boys lost their sense of judgement. Sanha had loved the feeling of Rocky’s hand in his, loved the way his thumb would rub soothing circles against his skin without even realising, as if it were a thing born from instinct. Rocky’s hand, warm and strong and firm, was one of the very last things Sanha can remember from before all of _this_ – before all of this torment and drama and confusion started to seep its way into his mind, confusing everything and making him second guess himself. They held hands a _lot_ , more than friends normally would, even if they were closer than most. Maybe it was their age or maybe it was the fact that Sanha had latched onto Rocky the moment he laid eyes on him all those years ago at auditions, or maybe it was the fans that had pushed them together from the very start, liking the height difference and the personality differences and the everything else different between them.

Sanha got it, he did. He understood where the fans were coming from because he liked the height difference, too. Like the fact although he was _taller_ , Rocky treated him as if he were small and needed protecting above anyone else. Rocky, who was small and lithe and yet strong all the same, with soft hands and defined cheekbones, who was made of meringue more than he was of stone, would clutch Sanha’s hand in his own and lead him to and from class, to and from the bus to the stage to the wherever damn else they went together. And Sanha would always let him lead. Always. It was kind of their thing, he guesses. Rocky liked to lead in the way that Sanha liked to follow, and while Sanha came across as loud and boisterous and kind of like a maniac to the fans, behind closed doors, he was much more subdued and hushed and silent. Perhaps not so much as Dongmin and Bin, but enough that there was a distinguishable shift in mood as soon as cameras stopped rolling and the screams coming from fans could no longer be heard or seen. It was never anything more than that; it was just a hand inside another one, one leading and one willingly following. Sometimes the roles reversed, too. Sometimes, when Rocky was tireder than usual, or everything felt a lot heavier on his shoulders, he’d need a little guidance. And Sanha was always there to offer it to him. Rocky always gave it to him, and Sanha was always there for Rocky fall back onto whenever the time came. Everything was _good._ Everything was normal and everything was locked into a routine.

So Sanha doesn’t understand why he had to go and change it.

He can remember the exact moment, the exact date and time down to the minute. He knew what the weather was like – knew that it was seventy-seven percent humidity outside with a fifty-three percent change of rain – but inside the air conditioning was set to twenty degrees Celsius and had been for a while now, so the room was cool and condensation was starting to form against the windows. Sanha remembers walking into the lounge room in slouchy shorts and an old t-shirt with the neckline half torn off, and seeing Rocky slouched across the single armchair in the corner. It was as old as Sanha’s t-shirt, if not older, and just as worn. The upholstery had started to pull away from the wooden backing, and the once-red suede was now a dull pink.  It had once had a set of four, short legs, raising it just the tiniest bit off the ground – high enough for them to lose spare change, hair pins, and the occasional lip balm tube – but two had fallen off over time, and the boy had replaced them stacks of books. Those books were to be the least read and the most disliked, and there had been a circle of debate surrounding the bookcase in the lounge room, choosing which books would become the new legs. Since then, though, books would come and go, with Jinwoo deciding he wanted to read the one right at the bottom again, and having to replace it with one of Dongmin’s novels. It was an endless cycle, but nevertheless, the chair had character and was, undoubtedly, one of the most prized possessions the boys collectively owned. It was the chair favoured by all the members, and no matter how much their management team, or even their own families, pushed them to replace it – they never did, never _would._

Rocky had sprawled himself so deliciously in that chair that Sanha had no hope of return. Sanha liked Rocky’s hand in his a little too much, had this feeling that maybe Rocky liked his hand there, too. He hoped, at least, _prayed_ every night to a God he didn’t exactly believe in that Rocky’s heart fluttered just as much as his own did. But it wasn’t enough. It had never been enough for Sanha. Sanha wanted so much more than a hand in his; wanted the love and the mutual affection that went with it. Sanha wanted a _boyfriend_. More specifically, he wanted Rocky to be his boyfriend. So, when he had walked in and had seen the elder delectably slouched in the armchair, Sanha had no choice. No will power. No _control_.

He remembers sauntering over to the chair in his daggy shirt and shorts, his sock-covered feet touching the floor silently, a little slippery, and remembers scrunching his fingers into Rocky’s own shirt. His shirt wasn’t quite so battered as his own, but was still old and well-loved. It was soft underneath his fingers, quite the contrast to the tight grip his hands had on the cotton, and he _pulled._ The tugging had alerted Rocky enough to jar him awake, make his eyes bulge out of his head at the sight of him. Sanha didn’t want to know what he looked like; knew he must have looked a mess. Delirious with no sleep and desire and something that was a little bit _more_ than that, something that made Sanha feel inclined to believe it was closer to love than a crush could ever be. However, he looked was enough for Rocky to open and close his mouth a total of four times before Sanha dipped down low, and pressed his mouth to his.

Rocky hadn’t been speaking, but it had shut him up. Sanha could see the way Rocky had eluded painful thought, so damn deep that the lines of his forehead were like permanent indentations, and Sanha wanted nothing more than to soothe them. He had hoped, that maybe, just _maybe_ , that the feeling of his lips on his own was enough to calm him. Rocky wasn’t as responsive as he had envisioned, his lips motionless against his own, but Sanha had barely pressed his lips against him when he felt hands on the backs of his knees. Where he was standing, Rocky sitting, the arch of Sanha’s back was a defined curve, something that no longer bothered him with how flexible he had become over the years. Had it been anyone else, perhaps it would have _hurt_ , the u-shape bend of his spine, but right now Sanha felt so at ease it had made him shiver. This, combined with the softness of Rocky’s t-shirt, the slight movement of the elder’s lips against his own, was enough to make him feel dizzy. The dizziness was one that he found solace in, because it made it all feel a little more real. Like the concoction of flavours and feelings being exchanged wasn’t just a one-sided dance anymore, but a tango of twists and gasps and turns and tiny little whines and the nipping of teeth. There was a tightening of hands against knees, enough to make Sanha fall into Rocky’s lap, his knees on either side of his hips, enough to make Sanha feel high on his delirium. So, damn high, even though he didn’t even know what that _meant_ or felt like, he knew that this had to be it, that there was no doubt in his mind that this was what it all meant, when Rocky’s hands moved to his hips, to his waist, up to his neck and his cheeks. Rocky’s grip there was as firm as his hand holds were, as soft, too, and Sanha waited for the moment Rocky’s kisses felt more like a lead and follow, like their hands were, like everything else about them was. It felt like maybe this was a dream. If it was, Sanha never wanted to wake up. But even dreams have to end, and this one was no exception.

Because Rocky’s kisses teetered off the edge. The hurried pace had started to slow, energy expended, and the tight grip on his face had started to loosen. Sanha pressed deeper into him, tried to, his own hands gripping the other’s shoulders with all the strength he could muster. But it wasn’t _enough_ , because Rocky wasn’t leading, wasn’t trying to lead Sanha to and from. Rocky had, instead, pushed Sanha away, made him stumble back off his legs, and back to his feet. Sanha was close to falling down onto his backside, but Rocky had steadied him with his hands on the backs of his knees again. It was like a full rotation, because then, Rocky had merely shaken his head at him. Had closed his eyes next, and tucked his legs back up underneath himself. Sanha wasn’t stupid, no matter what some people thought of him. Underneath his mess of blonde hair and pouty lips and steady voice, there was a seventeen-year-old boy with an even messier set of feelings that hurt and ached and twist and bend just as much as any others. _Sanha wasn’t_ _stupid,_ so he didn’t stick around. He took the hint, and he fled the room, wishing – praying to that damn God again – that things wouldn’t change.

But things always changed. That was what life was. It was a collection of ups and downs and greedy kisses and red-cheeked smiles, and it was crying in the shower late at night and letting the water run cold. Life was an accumulation of these damn things we try to get more of, less of, gain and lose and keep, but _shit_ , it wouldn’t ever stop accumulating, either, no matter how much you tried to stop collecting.

Sanha stands at one side of that same lounge room now, seven and half months later, watching that _same_ red armchair. It’s occupied, and in the flurry of people in the room, Sanha can’t tell who’s sitting in it at first. He knows it’s not Rocky, knew if it _was_ , Sanha’s body would be itching for him, making its way to him without prompting. Knew that the body sitting in it didn’t slouch the way Rocky did, shoulders reaching too high up for it to be the boy Sanha knew so well.

Sanha’s heart was lurching in his throat, though, much like it had been that day he sat himself in the arms of the elder. There was a flutter in his stomach, too, that accompanied it, because there were two bodies connected on the armchair now – and the image was too familiar, too damn familiar, and Sanha’s eyes were beginning to sting and prickle and twinge underneath his eyelids. Sanha remembers the feeling of Rocky’s hands making their way up his sides, remembers how soft his fingertips felt. Remembers how soft they had been in his hand, tugging him closer, remembers how everything was before Sanha had to go and mess it all up by _kissing_ him. But Rocky had kissed _back_ –or so Sanha had _thought._ Sanha doesn’t know anymore, doesn’t know what’s right and what’s wrong and what’s fallen through the cracks and what’s managed to remain. Rocky had pushed him off. Pushed off his body and his hands and in the process, had managed to make Sanha spill everything inside of him onto the red upholstery, onto the wooden floorboards that sat beneath it. Sanha looks at the books underneath the armchair now – a relationship composed of Orwell and Twain and Woolf and Salinger – and wonders how it would feel to be so _needed_ , so depended on. To be the one to lift something else _up,_ to be the one that makes the other work again. Sanha looks away from the armchair, heart aching, a little swollen, maybe, and watches the front door.

Rocky was _late._

Or maybe he just wasn’t coming.

Sanha didn’t know what hurt _less._ Not sure if he wanted Rocky to come late, make him miss the countdown, to leave him standing alone in the corner against a wall of a home he’s never felt so unfamiliar with. He’d been here for two years now, was familiar with the markings on the wall, the way you had to turn the handle _upwards_ instead of downwards if you wanted to open the kitchen pantry silently at night. Knew that the floor door would rattle the entire row of windows when opened, no matter how gently you did it. Which is why Sanha knew Rocky wasn’t here, because the windows hadn’t rattled in over an hour – no one else had arrived, and no one else had left. It was the same handful of people, same room of tumbling, dancing, drinking bodies. And Sanha was sober, painfully so, and he’d never been drunk on liquor before, didn’t know anything more than a bitter sip of MJ’s cup.

Sanha can remember, after the kiss, that he hid himself in his room for five hours before he needed the bathroom. He was surprised, to say the least, that when he snuck out of the shared dormitory room, that the house was as silent as he had left it when he stormed away. Rocky hadn’t started screaming, or crying, or yelling – hadn’t started a phone call argument with anyone, didn’t want out of the band. Sanha had to bypass the lounge room to get to the bathroom, which meant swallowing his pride and his anxiety and his fear all at the same time, and with his lungs full, he pushed his way through the room. He needn’t have bothered though, because Rocky was no longer on the armchair, and his shoes weren’t by the front door, and his jacket gone from the door behind the door, and Sanha knew that he had taken off.

He returned three days later, having left Sanha no texts but the other boys plenty. He had left for a hasty visit to his family back home, had returned to attend the photoshoot that had been planned for a while now, and remained silent with Sanha the entire time. Their playful antics had automatically ceased, and Sanha remembers throwing up into one of the toilets at the studio, Jinwoo hunched down beside him and rubbing his back. He remembers his laboured breathing, but doesn’t remember himself starting to cry, only noticing when the leader had wrapped his arms around his chest and tugged him to his own. Sanha recalls a blowing of air in his ear, and fingers carding through his hair, two very soothing motions that lowered his heart rate, made his sight a little less condensed.

Jinwoo had repeated over and over, _what’s wrong Sanha,_ had made him spill out the words from between broken sobs and a broken heart that was struggling to beat anymore. Sanha had well and truly tasted the bitter taste of unrequited love, of guilt and regret and everything in between. Sanha had finally understood what the romance songs were about, finally understood what _their_ own songs were about. Before, he knew nothing about anything to do with love and whatever else, but this here, right now, with Jinwoo pressing words of kindness into his skin was enough to make him realise that he’d been a victim of it all along, even without him knowing.

From then on, Sanha had made himself scarce around Rocky. Their interactions were brief and limited to interviews and media and whatever else their lifestyles thrust upon them. When they travelled, Sanha and Rocky no longer shared hotel rooms, and at the table, they no longer sat beside each other. Rocky didn’t share his food with Sanha anymore, and Sanha didn’t share his bag of lollies, either. Things shifted and changed and altered so quickly and definitively that he wasn’t quite sure where they stood. After weeks of this, of this tip-toeing, Sanha couldn’t even remember why he had liked the boy in the first place.

But, that was more than a lie. Of course, Sanha remembered. He could remember every single detail about the boy, from the contours of his skin, to the architecture of his bones – and every single detail was something that added up this greater picture in Sanha’s mind, no matter how flawed or incorrect Rocky thought it to be, and it was this picture that Sanha cherished and loved and cared for. A picture that, no matter if Rocky didn’t have one of his own of Sanha, would always hang prettily in his mind. It was a work of pure art, above anything else he’d ever seen, and he’d treasure it forever. The memories were enough to make his chest ache, a heart attack waiting to happen, but from everything he’s ever read about grief is that that feeling is a side effect of love; that the ache that follows love is a blessing because it reminds you that the pain is all worth it. Sanha isn’t quite so sure though, he’d take numbness above this.

Sanha takes a swig of his drink – its lemonade and something else, nothing strong, nothing alcoholic like he felt like he _needed_ – and wishes again, and _again,_ that things had turned out differently for him. He wishes he could have kept his hands to himself, or rather; been satisfied with just holding hands with Rocky. Why did he need more than that? Why couldn’t it have been enough, what he had? Why wasn’t he _satisfied?_

Again, silly questions, silly statements. Sanha knew why he wasn’t. He knew it was because the hand holding was platonic and a thing Rocky did to look out for Sanha. Sanha was only one year younger but he acted a lot more, was ditzy sometimes, and loved skin ship. It was something the boys had known about right from the start. It was something they often offered him, but the most of it had been reserved for Rocky, who’s liking the youngest was so blatantly obvious – even to Sanha himself. But it was friendship, nothing more, so why did Sanha tempt fate? Why did he dance the dance that was always going to be one sided?

He whimpers against his cup now, hiding his face behind it as he feels tears begin to well in his eyes. He had known this feeling of heartbreak for far too long; knew its silence and knew its loudness. Knew its in-between and above’s and below’s. _Knew it far too well._ So, well, in fact, that the others had begun to sense it, too.

Jinwoo was well aware of it; had shared this knowledge with MJ, because those two were as close as he and Rocky had once been. He’d been kind enough to not mention it, though, which Sanha was grateful for. It had come up in conversation when, one day, management had asked for paired photographs, and had automatically put the maknae together. Sanha was anxious, knew the photos would come out tense and awkward, but was willing nonetheless. It was his job, at the end of the day, and it was to some extent what the fans _wanted._ Sanha was willing because this life he had was a gift, and he wanted to give it all back, too, wherever and whenever he could. But Rocky had just shake his head, said _we do that all the time,_ and had suggested photographing with Jinwoo instead – said something about the rap line never having photo time together.

Jinwoo didn’t get a word in when Rocky had dragged him away to get photos; MJ hadn’t said anything, and Bin and Eunwoo looked sheepish in their seats, but curious all the same. But Sanha had just wept. He sobbed, rough and dry in his throat, and wracking through his body and making his shoulders heave. He was ruining his makeup, he was sure of it, but later, when the makeup artist simply wiped it all off and started again, she did so with a gentle, patient hand. When she was done, she kissed his cheek, sprayed him with a little perfume, and sent him on his way. Rocky and Jinwoo were done now, photos all done, and Sanha had his turn and tried to forget everything that had just happened. That night, when Rocky was in the shower, there was a ten-minute period of undisturbed time where Sanha let Jinwoo and MJ explain what had been happening. Sanha had sat wordlessly through the entire thing, had watched the grooves in the dining table, watched the red armchair in the corner. The books were different then, weren’t classics like they were now, but Sanha remembers thinking that they weren’t good enough to be supporting such a chair. Or maybe they _were,_ because that chair had done nothing but offer Sanha judgement and pain and plenty discomfort.

When Rocky got out of the shower and slipped back into the living room, he didn’t mention the red around Sanha’s eyes or the anger that flared in Bin’s or the disappointment itching in Eunwoo’s. In fact, he mentioned nothing, just slinked himself down into the armchair Sanha despised so much and fell asleep. Sanha had remembered him looking so calm and so at ease, wondered how he did, how he could feel so _much_ , but then feel nothing regarding all of this.

Sanha remembers thinking, for the first time in the time he’d known Rocky, that maybe he _was_ cold hearted.

But that was stupid, too. Sanha’s cup was empty and as he made his way to the kitchen, he felt and heard the windows rattle along in the main room. His heart clenched with what he assumed was hope, but knew better than to trust it – he had hoped for so long, and all it did was let him down. So, hope no more. He refilled his drink, downed half of it, and then topped it up again. He watched the clock on the wall for a few moments, seeing the 11:59 slowly tick closer and closer to 12:00 and told himself that Rocky wasn’t just late, Rocky wasn’t _coming._

“Sanha?”

That was his name, and he knew that voice, but it couldn’t be _true._ He took another drink, eyes still fixed on the clock. He heard a loud, excited drawl of _ten, nine, eight,_ in the other room, where the god damn couple are probably still kissing on the red armchair, just like he wished he was doing with Rocky right now. _Seven, six, five,_ and there was someone directly in front of him, their hands cupping his cheeks in such a familiar fashion that he didn’t know how to stop the nostalgia oozing out of his heart and into his muscles, his nervous system, and everywhere else.

_Four, three, two,_ and Sanha was looking at the boy, shorter than he was but standing tall just the same. His eyes were weeping, tears matching his own, and the hands that were on his face were now trailing down the sides of his body, tugging at his shirt – nicer than the one he wore many months ago, when he felt these same hands follow the same path – and Rocky was _here._ He was _here,_ and he was simpering a little, bottom lip trembling when—

_One_ , and suddenly it was Rocky’s turn to move; Rocky’s turn to initiate what Sanha had done months and months ago.

His lips were as soft as he remembers, as pillowy – they remind him, once again, of meringue and of whipped cream, and of the Christmas just passed. Rocky was a _gift,_ the press of his lips against his now the best present of all. Sanha felt greedy again, a little selfish, and he ignored the whistles and yells and screams as they entered the New Year and pressed himself harder against Rocky now.

The dream he once had, the one that was painfully too deeply webbed into reality that it had destroyed their friendship for many months, seemed very distant and far away now, as if it had never happened. Sanha, of course, knew that it had, knew that the two of them would have to talk about this later. But, for now, Sanha tangled his fingers up to where Rocky’s hands were attached to his cheeks, and tugged them away from his face. Rocky pulled his lips off, taking the action as a bad thing. This caused Sanha to whine, and press forward again, lips meeting the elders.

Sanha slid his hands down from where they were wrapped around Rocky’s wrists, pulled him closer, so that he was leaning back against the kitchen bench with Rocky between his legs, slipping into the contours of his heart all over again. His fingers finally, _finally,_ tangled their way through Rocky’s, their hands once again connected and tethered as definitively as their hearts were now.

Sanha didn’t know how Rocky felt – but he knew how _he_ felt, and it was the same as he had always done. Longing and affection and so strong and pure and so very close to love that it was teetering on the edge of unrealistic. Sanha didn’t know what Rocky felt, didn’t _want_ to know in this very moment – all he wanted to know was that Rocky was _here_ and he wasn’t _late_ and he was kissing Sanha with all he had, and Sanha was kissing him back just as much.

In the later hours of the morning, when his head was less fuzzy and everything was a lot less confusing, he’d ask him what he felt and what he was thinking and what all of this meant. He needn’t worry though, because somewhere along the way he felt his head fall down to Rocky’s shoulder, could feel the pressure of months and months of avoiding each other and ignoring each other and _losing_ each other easing and slipping away, leaving him feeling deprived of life and energy and everything else but love. He couldn’t pin point the exact moment he realised he was falling asleep, but the next thing he knew, he was being jostled awake by a rough hand on his shoulder.

He groaned, eyes opening, thick and crusty with sleep, limbs cramped and awkward but he was _warm._ He was sprawled on top of Rocky, who was stretched uncomfortably on the red armchair in the lounge room, Woolf and Salinger holding them upright and keeping them secure and safe. His body was aching and his neck had an unpleasant crick in it, but Jinwoo’s eyes were soft as he told him there was breakfast on the table before he turned to leave. He could hear his bandmates at the table, shuffling plates around and cutlery and sauce bottles opening and closing. He could hear Eunwoo tease Jinwoo, hear Bin’s complete silence as he ate. More than that, and much louder, he could hear Rocky’s beautiful little _“I love you”_ being whispered into the palm of his hand.

The two of them stood from the chair, and Rocky looked up at him with a sleepy, soft smile. His eyes were crescent moons and Sanha felt lost in the space there.

Then, Rocky took his hand, and led him towards the table.

Sanha followed.

 

 

“If you weren't around, I'd probably be someplace way the hell off.

In the woods or some goddamn place. You're the only reason I'm around, practically.”

\- J. D. Salinger,  _The Catcher in the Rye_

 

"I see you everywhere; in the stars, in the river, 

to me you're everything that exists;

the reality of everything."

_-_  Virginia Woolf,  _Night and Day_

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> plz come talk 2 me at [softsocky](http://softsocky.tumblr.com/) pELASE
> 
> HAPPY NEW YEAR YO I LOVE YA'LL SO MUCH <3


End file.
